


New

by et_cetera55



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/et_cetera55/pseuds/et_cetera55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt 'New' (Yeh... I'm not very imaginative with my titles!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	New

 

_July 2045_

I wake to find sun streaming in through strange curtains into a room I don’t recognise. I appear to be unhurt and in good health, ruling out the possibility of being in hospital after injury or overdose. I am unrestrained, suggesting I have not been captured. And now I look more closely, there are some items that I do recognise in the room, most especially a photo of John and me (taken a few months after we moved into Baker Street) sitting on the bureau. The most likely explanation then is that I have deleted knowledge of my location from my brain because it is unimportant.

There are some clothes laid neatly on the chair. I do not recognise them but on examination I see that Mrs Hudson has helpfully written my name on all of the labels. They are for me then. I do not pretend to understand why she seems to have felt the need to replace my wardrobe – some things even I cannot decipher.

I dress myself and head down the stairs towards some sort of lounge area. Two elderly gentlemen and one ancient lady sleep in chairs placed around the room. I sit myself in a leather-backed armchair.

I start trying to recall why I am in this place when I am interrupted by a woman in a green uniform who tells me that I have a visitor, a Doctor Watson. As she is still finishing her sentence this doctor walks stiffly into the room, an elderly man leaning rather heavily on a stick. I tell him that I do not feel unwell and so do not have need of his presence. He seems to almost flinch before telling me that he is not here to treat me for any ailment. So! He is yet another one of my interfering brother’s agents.

I shall soon see him off as I have all of the others before him.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

He looks surprised – although something in his expression makes me think that the surprise is forced, faked. Perhaps Mycroft has warned him.

“Afghanistan.”

His answer is as abrupt as my question.

“But you have not done much surgery since, I think.”

“No. General practice.”

The doctor is still calm, composed. This will not do: I have no time for Mycroft’s meddling.

“You were widowed recently.”

That makes the man start. He looks shaken.

“Not quite,” he replies, shakily, “but… sometimes… it seems as if… How did you know?”

“It was obvious. Your military bearing would be recognised by all but the blindest of simpletons. Given your age you were unlikely to have served in Northern Ireland or Kosovo, at least during periods of active fighting, leaving Afghanistan or Iraq as the most obvious choices. It is unlikely that you have done any surgery since given how much your hand is currently shaking. And you have lost your wife in some way recently. You have shaving foam just under your left jawline – your wife would have noticed and so you would have cleaned it off before leaving the house. If she had left, it is unlikely you would still be wearing the ring, never mind be caressing it absent-mindedly as you are doing. Am I right?”

“Brilliant!”

“Really? That’s not what most people say. Most people tell me to shut up.” This doctor is very nearly interesting.

“Well it is. It’s brilliant.”

“But was I right about it all?”

“Nearly everything,” he says with a small, almost sad smile. “But it is my husband who… I no longer have.”

Normally I would push for more, demand to know why exactly he chose those words – an unlikely euphemism to hear from a doctor if discussing death – but something inside me pities the man and so I remain silent.

He sits silently too, until he suddenly seems to pull himself together and asks, “What about her then?” nodding to the woman asleep by the radiator. “What can you tell me about her?”

We spend the next hour like that, me deducing facts about the other incumbents of the room and their visitors to the obvious delight of the doctor. I even ask him to tell me what he observes about one of them. He doesn’t actually do too badly – although I do not tell him that.

After, when he leaves, I feel almost sad. I do hope he visits again – I think I very nearly made a new friend.

And I am sure John would like him.

 


End file.
